


Cicatrix

by CADEL



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Bromance, Displaced, Family, Friendship, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Man Out of Time, Paranoia, Platonic Romance, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Apocalypse, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 13:12:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4836629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CADEL/pseuds/CADEL
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick stood paralysed by the window of his old house. There were people in the streets – alive and well – and no matter where he looked, there wasn’t a damn Walker in sight. Time travel to a few months before the outbreak. Rick & Daryl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

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 **Cicatrix** (ˈsɪkətrɪks)  
A scar left by the formation of new connective tissue over healing cuts and wounds.

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Saturday mornings always started the same.

Lori would wake up at eight to get breakfast ready. Then she would brush her teeth, dress, and then wake up her husband who insisted on late Saturday mornings.

But that Saturday morning was different.

Lori Grimes jolted out of her sleep by a shift in the mattress. The distinct dip made by her slumbering husband was absent. Turning her head to the side, she squinted at the red digits on the bedside clock and noted it was a little past seven – still early for both of them.

She blindly reached for her husband but found his spot empty but the sheets were still warm. Lori frowned at the absence. Forcing the cottony sleep from her mind, Mrs Grimes turned around to find Rick.

Whatever she was expecting, it wasn’t this.

That Saturday morning was different.

Because Lori Grimes woke up to the sight of her husband pointing a gun to her head.

II

The pink coloured curtains looked familiar.

Rick blinked away the sleep from his eyes and squinted at the morning light bleeding through the window.

Out of habit, he rubbed the sore spot above his shoulder blade, a repeated strain injury born from sleeping in cars and hard ground. But the familiar aches and pains were absent along with his chronic back pain.

However, it was all dismissible because the sudden feeling of vertigo nearly floored him.

Eventually, it wasn’t the familiar ceiling, the family pictures beside his bed or even the damn pink curtains his wife insisted were ‘salmon’.

It was the smell.

Honey and pinewood mixed with something floral-like.

It was a scent he was never supposed to smell again. Not after _she_ died. But there it was, stronger than ever and Rick was suffocating in waves of nostalgia, choking him with relentless memories.

Rick Grimes shot out of bed, frazzled but silent, then backed away towards the wall by the window.

He knew this room.

The sound of moving cars jolted Rick from his disorientation, and with extreme caution, he parted the fabric and gazed out his window. Rick Grimes was motionless as he watched his neighbour across the street pick up the paper and greet Old Lady Jane by her rose bushes. People were driving, walking and the paperboy with buck-teeth threw the morning paper onto their lawn.

It was mundane and normal and so very, very _wrong_.

His eyes darted from object to object, picture frame to picture frame. The swelling drone in his ear increased.

Hallucinating his wife was one thing. But _this?_

Rick could hear his ears go fuzzy as sounds bled away, muting his world into a soundless grey. He resisted the urge to throw up after another hit of vertigo.

Whatever neural turbulence had momentarily caused Rick’s brain lapse was shot back to reality with the sound of rustling bed sheets.

The sheriff’s eyes darted to the body moving under the blanket. And suddenly something switched _off._

_Take control of the situation._

Moving on nothing but instinct, Rick Grimes grabbed the gun in his bedside drawer. His heart was a maelstrom of pandemonium but his hands were steady. This was all he knew now. This was what the world had shaped him to become.

A man with a gun.

Not understanding his own actions, but knowing the near crippling panic had to be crushed, Rick Grimes cocked the gun and aimed.

.

.

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 **Note:**  I’m always eating while watching Walking Dead and it never fails to destroy my appetite.

However, I adore the show so all I can do is soldier on with my meal.

While avoiding the beef mince in my dinner that suddenly looks uncomfortably like brain matter, I was struck with the image of our jaded, bloodied and loveably insane Rick Grimes suddenly back in suburbia. Of course he’d be accompanied by his crossbow-wielding brother, Daryl. Both unhinged and completely at lost with what to do with themselves in a world suddenly too clean.

I nearly laughed out brain matter from my nostrils.

What an idea. What a mess. What fun!

So here we are.

A character study of the Sheriff and the Redneck.

Give me reviews like you give me the flu. Always happy to get a little sick.

CADEL

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Shane Walsh took two steps at a time as he ascended the stairs of the Grimes house.

When he reached the master bedroom, he knocked lightly and entered. He found Lori sitting on the side of her bed while holding onto Rick’s hand.

“Lori?” Shane moved closer.

The woman looked up from her seat and sighed out, “Shane.”

Flooding relief bloomed in Lori’s chest as she turned to her friend. She wrapped her robe around herself, trying to seek some comfort in the self-made cacoon. The tall man was still wearing his sleeping shirt. Lori knew that her frantic call over the phone had the man rushing over.

“You alright?”

“I’m so sorry for calling you this early.”

“Hey it’s fine.” He reassured her. “I came as soon as I could.” Shane peered down at the bed. “You said something happen with Rick.”

“I…” Lori blinked away the itch in her eyes. “I don’t know, I just…I didn’t know who else to call.”

Shane’s eyes zeroed in on the red gauze and the gelled blood over his best friend’s brow.

“Christ, what’s going on?” The man frowned with undisguised concern. “You didn’t mention he got hurt.”

Shane watched Lori hug herself closer and answered, “I woke up this morning because I heard Rick get up. But when I turned around…”

The officer watched as Lori gazed down at her husband with a hybrid expression of worry and fright.

“You turned around and…?” Shane urged on.

Lori blinked. “Right…I turned around and Rick was standing by the bed and completely out of it.” She took a deep breath in. “It was like he wasn’t even seeing me. Like he couldn’t hear me.”

Shane’s frown deepened. “Was he still asleep?”

“That’s what I thought at first, maybe he was sleep-walking or…I don’t know, but then he starts shouting.”

“ _Shouting_?”

No, Lori thought. He was _growling_ , low and threatening.

“Ya sure?” he didn’t mean for the disbelief to bleed into his question.

“Yes I’m sure!” she snapped with some heat.

Quickly realising his mistake, Shane lifted his hands up to placate her.

“You know I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that it’s hard to imagine is all.” Placing his hands on his hips, the officer slipped into his cop-mode and starting asking questions. “You said he started to shout, then what? And what happened to his head?”

Lori took a deep breath and answered after a few moments. “I tried to calm him down, ask what’s wrong but he just kept…”

_He just kept pointing the gun at me. Wouldn’t even blink._

Lori remembered staring down the barrel of the forty-five and not really comprehending it was her husband’s finger on the trigger.

Suddenly, Lori didn’t want Shane to know.

There was something about divulging that particular part of the story that didn’t seem…comfortable. Like guests witnessing a marital fight while coming over for dinner. It suddenly seemed very personal.

So Lori let the gun under the bed remained hidden.

“He just kept saying strange things.” Lori diverted.

“What’d he say?”

_Glassy blue eyes stared at her with abject panic and swelling hurt. “Why are you here?!”_

She should have been scared and maybe for a few moments she was, but once Rick began to harshly choke out his words, all Lori felt was concern. Because Lori had never heard her husband sound like _that._

Like there was glass in his throat.

Like Lori was an oasis of water in a burnt-out and parched desert.

She rubbed her temples as exhaustion made itself known behind her eyes. “I don’t remember.” She lied. “They were just unrecognisable words.”

“And the cut on his head?”

“He fell.” She pointed to the edge of the desk by their bed. “After he calmed down, he collapsed and before I could do anything he hit the edge of the table.”

There was a moment where Rick lowered his gun.

The man’s storm blue eyes looked as if it should be wet but instead they were unforgivingly dry. Rick’s mouth made harsh breathing sounds like he was sucking air through clenched pipes. Like it was the hardest thing to do. And then there was something disbelieving in his eyes, accompanied with another expression burning bright, simmering and bulging underneath like a cold supernova.

Something Lori didn’t recognise.

_“Lori?”_

It was barely whispered but the cracks in Rick’s voice were hairline fractures on paper-thin ice.

Suddenly it was like someone had cut the strings. All Lori could do was watch in horror as Rick’s eyes rolled back into his head and collapsed to the ground.

Shane was watching her as she stared at the rising and falling of her husband’s chest.

“Look Lori.” Shane crouched low and gave her a reassuring stare. “Rick’s one tough son of a bitch and your even stronger. I don’t know what happened but let’s wait till he wakes up yeah?”

She smiled, feeling grateful for Shane’s solid presence. “Thanks Shane.”

“Anytime.” He nodded. “Does Carl know?”

Lori shook her head. “No, he’s still sleeping.” Her fingers spun knots in her sleeve as she bit her lip. “The hit to head doesn’t look too bad and I’ve made Rick as comfortable as possible, but if he doesn’t wake up soon, I’m calling the ambulance.”

“Come on Lori.” He pulled her up and urged her towards the door. “Sheriff Sunshine _will_ wake up, so why don’t you get changed while I’ll make you some breakfast.”

“You can’t cook.” She added distractedly.

Shane blinked and gave her a disapproving grin. “Now, now Lori, I think I know how to work a toaster.” She gave a weak smile but turned back to Rick who was looking pale and eerily motionless. “Let’s go downstairs. We’ll come back up in a few minutes, if he’s not awake in one hour, we’ll take him to the hospital.”

When their footsteps disappeared and the door was firmly shut, Rick opened his eyes.

He stared at the ceiling then suddenly squeezed his eyes shut then opened them again, trying and failing at getting the sounds of the ghosts downstairs to go away.

II

Rick couldn’t feign sleep anymore.

Not with the tangle of thoughts and near hysterical ideas bolting through his mind. The four walls of his bedroom weren’t helping either. He needed to get out. He needed to move. He needed to see for himself. He needed to escape the strange apocalyptic world painted behind his eyelids. So even though Rick knew it was a poor decision, he crawled out of his bedroom window and descended onto the front yard with quick silent movements.

Rick Grimes walked down the familiar streets of his childhood home, feeling absurdly naked without his gun holster.

He didn’t have the right mind to answer ‘hello’ to Cindy when she greeted him by her car.

He openly stared at the mail man who nodded towards the sheriff.

He jumped out of his skin and nearly whacked Old Stan on the nose when he tapped the Sheriff on the shoulder to say good morning.

Rick Grimes walked down the street with a tight, contracting feeling in his chest till he was physically shaking. Surely he was too young to have a heart-attack.

“Sir?” A small voice called out.

Grimes turned his attention to a boy standing by a portable basketball hoop in the driveway. The child had a generous amount of freckles sprinkled on the bridge of his nose.

The boy gave him an odd stare.

“You’re in ya pyjamas.”

Rick looked down.

“…Yes.”

His breathless and dazed appearance seemed lost on the kid.

“That’s weird.”

Rick blinked slowly then replied, “…I suppose it is.”

“You’ve got no shoes.” The child observed.

“…I didn’t notice…”

A slightly baffled look crossed the child’s features. “Don’t ya have any shoes?”

Rick blinked down at his feet.

“I forgot them...I think.”

“Oh.”

The blue eyed sheriff curled his toes in, feeling the painful stones roll between his feet and suddenly he began to laugh. He felt hysterical talking to a child bare-foot and barely hanging onto his already dubious sanity. Rick crouched down with his head hanging between his knees as he caught his breath, his knuckles brushing the asphalt and his ears picking out the morning birds – both familiar and alien.

He felt exhilaration and he felt exhaustion.

Mostly, he just felt completely lost at sea.

“Sir?”

Rick jumped at the sound, reaching for the pistol that wasn’t there.

The boy with freckles pushed something towards the disorientated man. “Here.” A pair of cheap brown slippers landed in his unsuspecting hands. “Slippers.” When all Rick did was blink, the boy elaborated like he was a particularly slow child. “For ya feet.”

Rick rubbed the fabric between his fingers, firmly ignoring how his hands shook and his eyes burned.

The shoes were real. He was real. This place…

He felt like a drowning man finally seeing shore.

Another strangled chuckle crawled out of his throat and he looked back at the child.

“ _Thank you_.” He really meant it.

The boy with freckles would never understand why his voice quivered. He would never know the magnitude of Rick’s gratefulness. Or understand why a fully-grown man would spontaneously begin to cry.

They were just slippers after all.

II

Lori was hysterical back at the Grimes residence.

“Where is he?” Lori bit her fingernails, a bad habit she maintained since childhood. “Where the hell could he have gone?!”

“Lori calm down.” Shane interjected.

The fierce woman glared at the taller man. “Don’t tell me to calm down. He was injured Shane, I didn’t even get him medically checked yet. He could be laying in the gutter somewhere for all we know.”

“We’ll find him.” The man repeated for the third time.

“We should call the police. Ask for a search.”

“Now Lori I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?!”

“Because _I am_ police. _He_ is police. And what are you going to tell them? That your husband has been missing all seven minutes, could they bring out the entire search squad?”

Lori gave a frustrated sigh and sat down miserably on the kitchen stool. Her Saturday morning was getting worse as the minutes ticked by.

“You don’t get it.” Lori mumbled into her hands. “You didn’t see him this morning. I’ve never seen Rick like that before Shane.”

Masking his own worry, Shane explained in a firm voice, “If he ain’t here then he’d be round the neighbourhood and the car’s still here so he’d be on foot. Can’t have gone too far all things considered.”

Lori just nodded at the logic but the uneasy coil in her gut wouldn’t go away.

“I’m going to go look for him.” She stated getting up.

“No.” Shane abruptly interjected. “I’ll go look for him, you stay here.” Before she could protest, Shane grabbed his jacket and moved to the front door. Just as the officer was about to exit the house, the door opened before his hand could reach the knob.

On the other side of the threshold was Rick, standing in a thin t-shirt and sleeping pants.

“Jesus Rick! The hell have ya been man?”

Both men moved into the house, one watching the other wearily.

“Rick?” Lori came out of the kitchen and rushed over to hug her husband. “ _Rick!”_ She pulled back and cupped his cheeks, searching for further signs of harm. “What happened? Where did you go?”

Both Shane and Lori stared at Rick with differing levels of concern and confusion. They didn’t notice him flinch at his wife’s embrace or his lack of ability to look at his best friend in the eye.

“I went to pick up the newspaper.” Rick answered finally.

They both stared at him.

Then they looked at the roll of newspaper in his hand.

“Dad? Mom?”

All three adults turned to look at Carl rubbing his eyes at the top of the stairs. His hair was sticking at odd angles and his mouth open wide with a gaping yawn. He nearly stumbled down the stairs to his parents, seemingly oblivious to the atmosphere around them.

“Hey Shane, I didn’t know you were coming today.” Carl gave the bulkier man a sleepy smile.

Shane ruffled the boy’s hair. “Just dropping by.”

“You’re not going to stay?” the boy mumbled.

Shane was about to say he would but he looked over at his two friends. Lori was standing close to Rick, her expression a little stressed and tired. Rick on the other hand looked normal. Well, as normal as he could be with his unusually pale complexion and bloodied gash on his head.

Shane eyed his best friend, waiting for a sign. Rick gave him a nod and a reassuring smile.

“Sorry kid, I gotta go but I’ll be visiting soon.”

Then with a final assessing look he nodded to Rick, squeezed Lori’s shoulder and left.

After Shane left, Rick quickly swooped in, picked his son up by the waist and spun him around. Carl giggled at being suddenly airborne and held onto his father. After a few moments of tangled limbs and terrorizing tickles, the sheriff put Carl down and kissed him on the crown of his head. If Carl noticed that his father’s hold was a little tighter than usual, or if his kiss was tenderer, the boy didn’t say.

After another round of giggles, Carl looked at his father’s forehead and asked, “What happened to your head dad?”

Rick reached up, almost touching the wound he forgot was there. “Don’t worry about it son, it’s just a little scratch.”

“Does it hurt?” the boy asked, his sky blue eyes gazing at the red ooze with fascination.

Rick shook his head and answered honestly, “Not anymore.”

Lori stepped forward and kissed her son on the cheek. “Alright, you’ve slept in long enough, time to brush your teeth. I’ll have breakfast done soon.”

“Alright mom.” Carl nodded and went back upstairs.

Lori watched her son disappear upstairs and took a deep breath before facing her husband.

Rick was still watching the spot Carl had been standing, the newspaper in his hands neatly held in both his palms. Lori thought he looked…thin. She didn’t mean physically, but somehow that was the word that came to mind.

With the gash on his head and the pallor of his face, Lori thought her husband looked like a ghost.

II

Breakfast at the Grimes residence was anticlimactic considering the morning.

Carl was still a little sleepy but talkative and didn’t complain about his food for once. Rick had the newspaper open and his eyes were glued to the front page. Lori had fussed over both her boys and quickly dished out warm plates of food before settling down herself.

It was all quite mundane. And Lori was relieved.

“Okay I’m done!” Carl bolted off his seat and readied himself to leave when Lori cleared her throat.

“Carl, at least put the dishes in the sink and then you can watch those cartoons of yours.”

“Yes mom.”

“But only for an hour and take a shower afterwards.” She called out as the boy back out of the room. “We leave at noon.”

She could hear the dishes clutter precariously in the sink and she hoped nothing had been chipped. With a sigh, she turned back to her own breakfast, but stopped when she looked at her husband and found Rick had a peculiar expression frozen on his face.

“Rick?”

The man was still looking at the newspaper.

“Rick!”

Her husband’s eyes locked up to hers, startled and oddly skittish.

“Is it really July?”

Taken off guard, Lori scrunched her brow. “What?”

Rick held her gaze for a moment then turned back to the paper laid out in front of him. “July. I just thought…” the man shook his head. “Sorry…” his forehead wrinkled with thought. “Must have lost track of time. It’s nothing. ”

Her husband turned a page and scanned the inside of the newspaper, his eyes zooming through the content at a rapid pace. Lori eyed him and looked back down at her eggs.

“You haven’t touched your food.” She observed.

Rick blinked at her then his eyes darted to his plate. “Right.”

Her husband held his fork in his hand with an oddly uncomfortable grip and look down at his breakfast, still hot and untouched. He slowly scooped a bit of his eggs and put it in his mouth, chewing slowly and without taking his eyes of his plate. His eyelids fluttered the tiniest fraction as he stabbed a half-cut cherry tomato and lathered it in avocado.

He continued to take his time chewing and he looked at his wife with a small smile.

“It’s good.”

The way he said it, she found it unusually sincere.

Lori quirked a small smile back and replied, “It better be.” A tension Lori didn’t even know she had been holding was suddenly gone. “How’s your head?”

“Fine.”

“No headaches? We can quickly get it looked at before we go to the grill this afternoon.” Lori offered.

“It doesn’t hurt and the bleedin’s stopped so no need.” He soothed. After a moment he looked up again as asked, “Grill this afternoon?”

Lori watched her husband carefully. “Yeah, the grill and picnic at the park today. Family outing that you insisted on last week? Ya didn’t forget did you?”

Rick didn’t say anything for a good few seconds, but nodded and looked back down at his half-finished plate.

“No, I remember.” He answered quietly.

“Alright.” Lori replied.

Then they finished their breakfast together, the sound of Carl’s Saturday morning cartoons dancing in the silence between them.

II

They left at noon.

Lori and Rick drove their son to the park where a small local event was taking place. The heat was unbearable but there were plenty of drinks and the wind was cool between the tents and barbeque stalls. After having a brief conversation with the other moms and forcing Carl to actually keep his hat on, Lori craned her neck to see if she could locate her husband but after ten minutes of searching, she couldn’t find him.

“Reese!” Lori called out to the local butcher playing ball with his son.

“Oh hey there Lori, what can I do ya for?” the ruddy cheeked man asked while readjusting his wide-brimmed hat.

“I was wondering if you’ve seen my husband, I can’t find him anywhere.”

“Oh yeah, I saw him a few minutes ago by the bridge over the pond.” The man informed.

“Thanks a bunch Reese, I appreciate it.” Lori turned to go, but was suddenly stopped by the butcher.

“Hey Lori?” The man started whilst fanning his face. “Is Rick alright?”

The dark haired mother blinked uncomprehendingly at the other man. “What do you mean?”

Reese paused for a moment then continued, “I dunno…he just seemed a bit _off._ I tried talking to him but…” The other man couldn’t seem to find the right words but shook his head quickly. “Ya know what? Forget about it. It’s probably nothing. You have a nice day ma’am.”

With a frown, Lori left for the park pond.

She found her husband leaning against the wooden rails of the bridge, his neck craned down, looking at his reflection in the water and Lori kind of understood what Reese had meant. Rick looked like he was observing the world around him through a foggy glass. He didn’t look like he was even in the present. She should’ve made sure if his head was really feeling alright before they left, and the god forsaken heat wasn’t doing him any favours.

“Hey, what are ya doing all the way out here?” She leaned against the beams next to the other man.

“Just thinkin’.”

“Anything you wanna talk about?”

She didn’t expect Rick to tell her much. He never seemed to want to talk and open up. It was a problem that Lori was trying to deal with, but she wasn’t sure if it was worth it half the time.

After almost three minutes of silence, she was sure he wouldn’t say anything, but he suddenly spoke low and quiet.

“I’m sorry.” Rick whispered into the water. “For this morning.”

A little startled by the abrupt apology, Lori stared at her husband’s profile as he frowned into the water beneath their feet. She’d been waiting for it to come up, but now that it had, she wasn’t sure what to say.

“We never talked about it but…what happened?” Lori finally asked. “You had me really worried his morning.”

There was a pause, and then her husband answered. “I shouldn’t have left without telling you or Shane. I just needed to get some fresh air.”

_So you climbed out of our window?_

“And what about before that?” She asked carefully.

Rick gave her a strange look. “Before what?”

Lori blinked as a small frown appeared on her brow.

“Before you hit your head.”

Her husband was looking at her curiously, that odd glaze from his eyes now cleared up and uncomfortably sharp.

“I…don’t know…”

Lori didn’t know how to proceed. “Wait a second. What do actually remember from this morning?”

“I had a fall. I remember falling then I passed out.”

“That’s it?”

Rick thought for a moment then nodded. “Yeah.”

“You…” she started.

_You put a gun to my head._

But Lori found the words dying in her throat as Rick stared at her in mild confusion and genuine concern.

“You woke and…”

_You shouted. You growled and then you cried._

Rick waited patiently for her to answer, but the answer that _did_ eventually come out was not what she was expecting.

“You were disorientated.” Lori began. “I dunno, maybe it was a nightmare, but afterwards, you stood up too quickly and hit your head on the side table. You passed out and I called Shane for help.”

Her mouth tasted dry from the lie but she felt immediate relief which was abruptly followed by guilt. She’d tell him later…just not now. Lori didn’t want to tell Rick now. Not about the gun, not about the shaking hand on the trigger or about the muted horror on her husband’s face.

“Oh…” Rick replied a little quietly. “Alright.”

“You still sure your head is feelin’ fine?”

“I feel fine.” Rick repeated.

Lori paused then asked carefully.

“I’ve just never seen you like that…for a moment Rick, I swear you didn’t recognise me.”

There was look of guilt that flittered across her husband’s face that made the brunette want to take it back. “I...think I dreamed something. It was bad.” A deep frown burrowed into Rick’s forehead. “Really bad.”

“Like a night terror?”

“Maybe.”

“Rick…if you need some time off work you should take a break.”

“Thanks Lori but it’s nothing to worry about.” Her husband was gazing at her with that damn unrecognisable expression. “Just… _I’m sorry._ For whatever stress I caused you.” For a moment Lori though Rick knew but he still had an odd look on his face, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Rick gave her a smile then turned back to the water.

“Okay.”

II

If Rick spent the day hidden beneath the shade of the trees, walking close to the tents and eyeing the crowds of people like they were about the bite, Lori didn’t see it.

And if Rick eyed Carl with something close to melancholy disbelief or like he was something unbelievable, then Lori didn’t say anything.

II

Lori slid the window open to let fresh air into the bedroom.

Georgian summer nights were unforgivingly sticky, but the air outside had at least cooled down as night fell. Getting ready for bed, Lori went around her side of the bed and tucked away her slippers. But as she did, her heel hit the gun still lying underneath the bed.

She’d almost forgotten it. Almost.

Touching the heavy weapon, she couldn’t help but feel a strange shiver crawling down her spine. Needing to get rid of it, Lori placed the colt back into the drawer and closed it just as Rick walked out of the bathroom.  

As routine, they exchanged comments about Carl’s day at the park and complained about the hot weather as they pulled away the quilt, leaving only the thin sheets. They both crawled into bed and with one last kiss, Lori switched the lamp off and went to sleep, all of her worries disappearing.

In the morning, she found all the open windows had been shut and locked.

.

.

.

 **Note:** I don’t think this story will be too long, probably somewhere between 9-13 chapters.

What do you guys think? Keen to see how Rick will navigate through this impossible situation?

Thank you for that great response to the first chapter, I’m tickled-pink by your support.

CADEL

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

The first thing Daryl Dixon sees is the rabbit-foot hanging over his dashboard.

It’s significant because he doesn’t think it should be there.

Actually he _knows_ it shouldn’t be there.

It’s grey and dirty like it’s always been, like the day his uncle Jess cut the furry paw off the creature and handed it to him as an impromptu gift in the middle of the woods.  ‘ _Lucky charm?’_ he remembers himself saying. But his uncle moves deeper into the woods and just replies, _‘No such thing as charms boy. Yer make your own luck’_. This eventually makes him wonder why the man gave it to him in to first place, but of course it still doesn’t explain why he sees the dangling appendage now.

There’s something like a knocking sound coming from somewhere but Daryl barely takes note of it.

No, instead he focuses on sharp pain running down his neck and back because his shoulder is bitching out on him. It doesn’t appreciate the angle in which he decided to abuse it for the night, but it’s all forgettable in comparison to the discomfort of the oven-like temperature.

Because it’s hot. Georgian hot.

It takes a full thirty seconds for the hunter to blink away the unsettling _nothingness_ in his head and just _wake the fuck up_ because he can’t recall where he is or what he’s doing there.

He manages it eventually because he suddenly figures out he’s in a truck.

And not just any truck, but _his_ truck. The one he abandoned on some long forgotten highway, left aside to become another mechanical carcass in a great metal graveyard.

Daryl bolts up.

He’s awake now. More than he’s ever been because something clicks into place and he _knows_ it’s significant.

Then there’s that knocking sound again and it takes far too long for Daryl to turn around and look out the window.

“Hey, you right in there?”

Daryl flinches as far away from the car door as possible and presses deep into the other side of the truck, nearly analing himself on the gear sticks in his haste. He reaches for the gun by his hip but there’s nothing there and Daryl’s unease triples when he realises he can’t see his crossbow anywhere.

So Daryl quickly reaches out and locks the doors, eyeing the stranger with a narrow gaze that could peel the paint off his truck.

The man is tall and wears a dark green hat with a little bear logo on it – ‘forest ranger’ his mind supplies usefully after thirty seconds of silent staring. For some reason Daryl focuses on the man’s eighties moustache which looks like something out of Magnum P.I and it’s totally weird, but not as weird as the fact that the man is there _at all._

“Oh good you’re awake. Been trying to get your attention for a while – thought ya might be dead in there.”

Daryl continues to just look at the man like he’s an alien.

The stranger seems unfazed and unconcerned by the hunter’s dumb silence.

“Gonna pull a stroke if you stay in this metal oven in the middle of the day. Pull down the window at least yeah?”

Where the fuck is his gun? Daryl shoots his eyes around the tree line near the road, searching for other humans or walkers alike. He sees nothing and the forest ranger is still talking.

“Wanted to tell ya you’re blocking the path. Best move along now.”

The man tips his hat towards him like everything’s right in the world and walks away. Daryl’s gaze never leaves the man’s back till he gets into his own vehicle and drives into the forest track.

Then the stranger is gone.

Daryl blinks slowly and thinks the man is nothing more than his heatstroke talking.

II

There’s a half-eaten burger sitting on the other seat with several empty cans of beer sprawled all over the leather, and the _thing_ is so _bizarre_ that he doesn’t actually know what it is.

In the end Daryl gingerly picks up the burger because he doesn’t think he’s seen one in _years,_ and inspects it like one would inspect a poisonous insect. It’s the paper wrapping that’s more baffling than the food itself because it’s slicked with grease and the ink is bright and it’s the most colourful damn thing he’s seen in all his life and Daryl doesn’t know what to do with it.

He eventually decides to sniff the thing.

And it smells good. Really good. Cold and stale from overnight air, it shouldn’t be as mouth-watering as it is but the half-eaten burger is the freshest thing he’s smelt in forever.

His feels goosebumps erupt all down his arms and he knows all of it’s _wrong_.

Daryl drops the burger like it burns him and he doesn’t take a bite.

II

Daryl drives.

He drives and drives and drives down the winding mountain road till he finally locates which stretch of country he’s found himself in. The roads start to become familiar and he passes a few signboards that give away where he is.

And it’s Northern Georgia. He knows this from just the terrain alone.

Daryl nearly swerves the truck off road the first few times he sees other cars passing him by, trying to duck and steer straight at the same times as he reaches for the gun he doesn’t have. But after one handyman truck, two family cars and a motor cyclist later, Daryl stops trying to hide from the other drivers on the road and just grips the wheel tight under white knuckles and shifty eyes.

Daryl eventually stops the truck on some cliff that overlooks a view of a bustling town below.

Cars on the roads, people on the streets and the occasional plane in the sky all playing out like it some great postcard come to life.

And that’s when Daryl finally knows for sure what had made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on edge, what made his eyes shifty with unease and his stomach roll like a vat of boiling water.

There was no rot in the air. No death in the water. No flesh in the earth.

Just like the neglected burger next to him, the smell is all _wrong_. Fresh, open and virginal – Daryl feels the cleanliness, the apparent lack of disease and decay in the air like an all-encompassing blanket of ‘ _what the hell?_ ’ threatening to crush him from all sides. There’s now a different kind of colour to the world, a different kind of taste that doesn’t match the flavour of hell Daryl had lived for the last couple of years.

Daryl takes another look at the little town below and marvels at the street lights glowing as far as his eyes could see and he briefly thinks it kinda looks nice, like fireflies studded into the earth, buzzing with live wires and pulsing heartbeats. He forgot the landscape could look like that.

He eyes the rabbit-foot dangling from his rear-view mirror and presses his forehead against the steering wheel when he can no longer fight off his headache.

He really doesn’t know what to do.

II

Its twilight and Daryl somehow pushes away what might’ve been mild catatonia because he doesn’t remember what he’s been doing for the last few hours.

When the hunter finally shakes himself out of his stupor, he realises one certainty he _knows_ for sure.

He wants his crossbow.

He wants his crossbow as badly as Merle would moan and bitch for his crystal meth. His fingers itch like he’s been handling poison ivy and the absence of his weapon makes Daryl unwittingly snake-eyed and snarly at every little sound.

He can’t recall where he left it but there are only two real options: Merle’s cabin or his father’s garage.

It barely takes him a second to choose the former because he ain’t ever going to Will Dixon by choice. So Daryl starts the engine and drives for one hour flat till he finally pulls to a stop at his brother’s hunting cabin in the mountains.

He takes one look at the wooden house and Daryl knows immediately that no one is there. Everything is dark and still and the hunter refuses to acknowledge the disappointment he feels from his brother’s absence because the man is dead and Daryl doesn’t care what kind of hallucination all of this is. He ain’t gonna whip a dead horse. He ain’t gonna keep on hoping. Crazy or not, he’s on his own and Daryl is perfectly fine with it.

So Daryl edges his way into the hunting cabin, knocking on the walls to alert any walkers to his position. Room but room Daryl clears the small dwelling till he feels safe enough to locks the doors and shut himself in.

II

Daryl doesn’t find his crossbow.

But he does find drinking water, actual clear _drinking_ water and he spends almost a minute marvelling at the clean liquid gushing from the tap.

“Hey guys, there’s actually running –”

Daryl cuts himself off when he realises that he’s talking to no one.

 _That’s right,_ he thinks to himself, Rick and the gang ain’t there. And while being alone was once a constant state for the hunter, Daryl is not surprised that he finds the silence uncomfortable now – like having a pebble in a shoe or a splinter underneath the skin – the irregularity is small but almost disproportionately impossible to ignore.

In the end Daryl just leans his head under the tap and takes huge gulps of water like he’s drinking the fill of his entire missing group.

It proves to be a bad choice in the end because Daryl just throws it all up again.

II

It is well into the night and the dense forest outside the cabin makes Daryl feel safe as well as very nervous.

He doesn’t dwell on either feelings and just buckles down for the night.

The man knows where his brother keeps all his guns and Daryl systematically hunts them out of the fireplace, the ceiling and from the wooden floor panels till he can make a neat pile of toys on the drinking table. He pulls the forty-five apart, cleans the revolver and counts the bullets in the glock. Daryl also pockets the small kitchen knife in the sink for extra measure while remembering to lock the back doors and all the windows.

He knows there’s a perfectly good bed in his brother’s cabin but Daryl doesn’t bother sleeping. Instead he drags the mattress into the living room and places it against the furthest wall where all his guns were lined up and at the ready.

He hears familiar night birds and rustling leaves, all normal but also equally eerie and he knows he won’t sleep till morning comes.

So Daryl just sits there and waits for the sounds of walkers to come out and play.

He waits for the gnashing teeth, the groaning bones and the hungry wails of the dead. He waits for them to come and find him.

They never do.

II

_'No such thing as charms boy. Yer make your own luck.’_

Later, _much later_ when he looks back on that day, Daryl will wonder what higher power thought it’d be okay to greet his second life with a freakin’ ‘good luck’ charm.

It seemed more like a cackling ‘fuck you’ instead.

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 **Note:** My followers and reviewers have coaxed this chapter into existence, one kind word after another.

Thank you

CADEL


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